I took a class with Nancy Slonim Aronie several years ago on Martha’s Vineyard, and a one day workshop in Boston before that. She is one of those people who sort of changes your life. If you’re into writing, or into having a really cool experience, you should take a class with her. Her son was diagnosed with MS when he was 27. Struck down in his hunky prime. But what Nancy learned from the experience of having a profoundly sick child, informs much of her teaching, and it had an enormous effect on me. I was lucky enough to meet Dan, and he was some kind of special guy. He lost his valiant battle back in 2010, but I’m pretty sure his spirit is flying free, now that he’s ditched that body that gave him such a hard time. I always find the above video to be a reminder of perspective. I think perspective is almost as transformative as gratitude. And I’m grateful to Nancy for both.
gratitude-a-thon day 45: the kids are alright
This weekend was a powerful reminder of how much control you don’t have as a parent. It was the kind of emotionally charged, fight or flight misery that comes from not being able to do a damn thing to help your kids feel better. Ah, but let me back up and give you the full scoop.
Ally is on an elite club soccer team. The girl is great. She is very close to her team. They travel frequently, and are very bonded to one another. The team won the State Cup last year, and after that gave the girls contracts. Some girls got a full year. Some got a half year, with a review. It has been a rather stressful six months for Ally, knowing that every practice, every game, was a chance to show her coach she was a worthy player. Saturday was not only a tournament, but also the day of reckoning.
As I was watching the second game, Jake’s face popped up on my phone. “Mom, I was playing lacrosse and a stick hit me and my helmet cracked and it cut above my eye and my friends are taking me to the hospital for stitches. Just wanted you to know”. His voice was calm. I don’t have to describe my response BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT IT WAS. It was part babbling infant mixed with howling hyena. I did manage to say, “Call me as soon as you’re at the hospital.” I got off and told Peter, who said, “Oh, he’ll be fine.” Immersed in the game, he left me to my psychotic worry. I was already freaked out about the idea that Ally might not make the team, and couldn’t even eat the fabulous lunch a parent had made for us at her house, because my stomach was in the Olympic gymnastics event. Now, I had Jake to worry about. Did he have a concussion? Would the doctors know to do a plastic surgery type of job on him, and not slap together some stitches that would give him a weird scar. I called him over and over again, but he didn’t answer, so I called Jessie, his girlfriend, who I knew could use the magic power of her girlfriend-ness to get through. She calmly told me not to worry and that he was going to be fine. She told me she and her mom would go to the hospital if I wanted, but she said he seemed to be doing ok with his friends, and things were pretty straight forward. (Jessie is the best.) I felt 1% better. I continued to think about leaving and letting Peter and Ally get a ride home with another parent, but decided against it, knowing Ally might need me.
After playing two games in a tournament OUTSIDE, I might add (you know, where there is still SNOW and stuff) Ally stood on the sidelines with her coach to get her review. Peter and I stood several feet away, like statues, observing her profile for any signs of the outcome. Almost immediately, I could tell she hadn’t made it. I knew that the billboards for “Difficult Parenting Ahead” would be popping up any minute. Peter was in disbelief, as all signs had made him think her place on the team was safe. When it looked like they were wrapping up, I forced Peter to go and talk to the coach. I knew if I went over, bad things would come out of my mouth, and I might not be able to control my hands, or feet. Ally walked toward me and one of her other team mates, and told us both the news. She would play down a team for five months and be guaranteed a contract for 2014 on her current team. The coach wanted her to get more playing time, to play the whole game, instead of just 15 minutes, in an effort to improve her play. And although, I saw it as the coach’s commitment to her development as an even stronger player than she already was, it was not a scenario we’d ever considered. And for Ally, it was the first defeat she’d ever encountered. We went to the car and the tears started. There was some wailing. There was some sobbing. There was a lot of snot. Ally did not want to talk. This was hard because that’s all I want to do when something goes wrong for me, but I had to respect her process, so I sat quietly crying in the front seat. Peter drove like a zombie. Ally handed me her phone with a picture of Jake’s gash that was already circulating on Facebook. I have never felt queasy around anything medical, but I actually almost threw up. One inch, maybe less than one inch, and his eye would have been gone. GONE as in not there anymore. No question. One inch lower, and he would have been been blinded.
We sped home from Hopkinton, but not in time to get to the hospital. Jake was already on his way home. He looked very much like he’d been in a fight with Sylvester Stallone in the original Rocky, his forehead bulging with swelling, his eye practically shut. They had managed to sew his eyebrow together, and was given the directions not to exercise or do any heavy lifting. (oh great, the garbage was on me now.) I was already sorry he was playing lacrosse this year. As if Ally’s response to her news hadn’t already put me in a state, Jake just iced the cake.
My guilt for not having been there for Jake, AFTER HIS FACE WAS SLICED OPEN, was the size of Detroit, no Texas, no Switzerland (it’s prettier). But the truth was, that he appeared to be calm and ok (unlike moi). He had handled it just fine, was matter-of-fact (but clearly shaken) and taking it in stride in a way that surprised me. He’d had to miss the second playoff BHS basketball game, but as the Super Fan that he is, was following it on his phone like the president follows breaking news. Maybe Jake was ready for college after all. Maybe this was just to show me how ready he was to be on his own, because if this happened next year at this time, I wouldn’t be there either.
Ally continued to cry. She cried herself to sleep and actually woke up crying. I barely slept, I felt so out of sorts, so parentally unproductive, as in I could do nothing to help either one of my kids feel better. The events of the day were on a loop in my find, and kept me up most of the night, until I finally just called it at 5:00 and got up. I was meeting my roommate and old college friend, who I lived on Newbury Street with right after school, for the first time in 28 years, back down on Newbury St. for brunch. I was going to be really cute, what with the crying I did the day before and the no sleep! Anyway, I left Peter sitting with Ally, whose crying had made her look a lot like a blowfish, and who was still sobbing. I considered canceling my plans, but Peter had a way with Ally that made her talk, which I didn’t possess. These two have the most endearing and incredible relationship (which is a whole other post). They are a lot alike and speak the same emotional language. I knew she was in gifted hands.
I didn’t check my phone until after the brunch, but Peter had texted that the coach had contacted him to see if Ally could play the last game in the tournament, because another girl was sick. He said he was going to let her decide. I called him. He said Ally was icing her eyes, and they were on their way. This is how my daughter and I differ. If I were in that situation, I would have folded, and said, no, because I would have been too upset and embarrassed, and plus I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see my swollen eyes, and plus I would have been hating the coach so much, I might not be able to control my words, and also I would be so upset, I might have already enrolled in the witness relocation program. But Ally de-puffed her eyes, got on her cleats and was given a hero’s welcome by her team. She was the starting forward, and scored a goal within minutes of beginning the game. Her entire team embraced her, and she even got a surprise hug from her coach. She came home in a completely different frame of mind, having been supported by every girl, the coach, and the parents, and seeing that that this move was to make her an even stronger player for 2014. This was Ally’s first real bit of adveristy. And while she got a good tear duct workout, she rallied in record time. She’s done a lot of great things in her little life, but this was the most proud I’d ever felt of her. The girl not only has great athletic ability, she has great character.
As for Jake, he looked like a five year old who’d gotten into his mother’s purple eyeshadow on Sunday morning. The swelling was worse, and his eye was almost shut. He sat on the couch all day watching a mix of sports and movies. His fab girlfriend came over, and together we gave Ally a standing O when she walked in the door, high from her success.
This is what parenting can be like. Things happen to your kids, and sometimes there’s not a NUTHIN’ you can do about them. And the pit in your stomach feels like the cast of Riverdance is doing their thing in there. But it’s Monday, and we seemed to have survived. And I think, although we’re all a little wearier, we’re all ok. And most importantly, my kids showed me who they have become. Adults.
gratitude-a-thon day 45: jake is ok
gratitue-a-thon day 44: the martha’s vineyard ferry
gratitude-a-thon day 43: Mama Bears
Lately, I seem to be reading about mom’s who are facing stuff that is hard. Like, really hard. In the most recent (mammoth) issue of Vogue I just read an article by Emily Rapp, who writes beautifully about her experience with living, loving and losing her sweet little boy Ronan, who was born with Tay-Sachs Disease. As I read, I could feel the pit in my stomach growing to the size of a small midwestern farm, not because this story had anything to do with me, but because as a mom, I could feel what it would be like if it did.
Which brings me to another blog, that of Jane Roper. I met Jane for like 5 seconds many years ago, at a writer’s group that I was thinking of joining, but quickly realized was made up of writers that were quite a bit more experienced than I was. (Translation: Writers who were way fucking better than I ever could be at writing.) But the cool thing was that I got to meet Jane, who was an advertising copywriter, like me, and had just been accepted into the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She was exceptionally friendly and nice. Since then, I’ve watched her success from afar, as she’s given birth to twins and written two books. And then, recently, I ran into her blog and read with rapt attention about how one of her adorable twins had received the diagnosis of leukemia. At five. It made me once again, hold onto my chair, because, well, I of the vivid imagination, could imagine how difficult this would be to go through. (By the way, Jane is such a gifted writer, she even makes cancer funny.)
Lastly, I found a blog posted by a Facebook friend, which really made me think. The blog is by Julie Ross and is called George. Jessie. Love. And it’s about Julie’s child Jessie, who was George until his 10th birthday. And I thought Jake not making the basketball team was a parenting challenge. When I think of how brutal kids can be at that age, I can imagine that parenting a transgender child must require some superb mommying. Julie shares her experience with honesty and wit.
Why I’m fascinated by, and grateful for all these stories is because, in each case, I see and feel the Mama Bear that’s at the helm, and she inspires me to dig deeper in an effort to be a better mom, myself. None of us know exactly what we’re signing up for when we give birth. And the baby comes, and the love that you feel is so powerfully big, so all encompassing, so passionate and deep, that what you do know is, nothing will ever be the quite same again. And it hits you in an instant, that you will do whatever it is you have to do to keep that child safe, happy, healthy, and able to be their best selves forever more. You know it, like you know the sun will make it’s way to the center of the sky the next day, and will go into hiding 12 hours later.
And that’s what I love about these women. The unexpected, searing pain that can come with being a mom and doing your job can sometimes feel unspeakably impossible. But never undoable. These are dynamic examples. I’m grateful that these women, courageous and honest, are able to share their experiences so eloquently, and show us that in good times and bad, being a mom forces us to learn and grow and find beauty and love in even the most difficult. And that at the end of the day, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
gratitude-a-thon day 43: Niagara Falls
By now, you probably know, what with all the beach shots and the flower pics and the whining and complaining about winter, that I AM NOT A GIRL WHO LIKES THE COLD. Well, on our recent trip to Buffalo, we took an hour and drove up to the American side of Niagara Falls. (We didn’t have our passports, so we couldn’t go to the bigger, even more dramatic Canadian Falls.) I’m sorry, but there’s just no other polite way of describing one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the Modern World, other than to say HOLY. FUCKING. SHIT.
First of all, it is mammoth, like a moving Grand Canyon. Secondly, it is cold, like one of those nights when the temperature drops to -10, and your heat doesn’t work and you have no pajamas. Thirdly, everything is FROZEN SOLID like you’re in a life-sized fridge. The river is choppy, white water-ish ,because of the force of the Falls, or I should say, it would be choppy if it wasn’t FROZEN IN PLACE LIKE A STATUE. Literally this water has STOPPED COLD. It’s like a Batman villain showed up and waved his hand and said, ok, FREEZE. Also, the drop down to the river, is pre-tty big. And you’re staring at this rushing water, and the backdrop of white, and it’s a little disorienting, so you think maybe you might fall, like into the freezingness of this awful place, and you just want to go back to the car (Ok, maybe I’m just talking about me, here.) Anwyay, the power of this thing, was just mind blowing. We were all sort of shocked by its intensity. Even the unimpressible kids were impressed (It really takes something big to get a lifted eyebrow from a teenager these days.)
Even though I hate the cold, like it was evil itself, I was grateful to have seen the falls. I hadn’t been there since i was 8 and went with my family to Expo 67 in Montreal. I was terrified then, too. And I remember we went on The Maid of the Mist, which was the boat which goes under the falls. As young as I was, this just did not seem like an intelligent idea to me. Anyway, when you see something as big as NIagra Falls, it reminds you of how small you are. And how big the world is, and that you are just a little part of it. And sometimes that’s a really good thing to remember.
gratitude-a-thon day 42: the mail
I’m a big texter, a huge emailer, a fervent facebooker, and a once-in-while skyper, and while I’ve yet to twitter, I’ll probably succumb some time soon. But call me old-fashioned, or just call me old, I LOVE TO GET MAIL. The kind that comes in your mailbox, that someone has written. WITH A PEN. I have always been a postal proponent. Give me the guy in the blue uniform and the big sack, and I’m happy. When I was a kid, I spent a month on the Cape every summer and made lots of friends, who turned into pen pals. Everyday I impatiently waited for a letter from any one of a dozen people. I stalked our little black mailbox with the flip-up top, like a dog stalks a big steak that’s just out of reach. I would wait for the envelopes with my name. Sometimes they had little hearts over all the i’s, sometimes stickers, or elaborate flowers, or my name in a rainbow of markers, or in a fat and balloon-y font. I loved every moment of the letters, in all sorts of writing that inhabited those envelopes, describing life in other parts. Sometimes there were even photos. That was a red letter day. I kept all the letters housed in their envelopes in my room. Sometimes I re-read them. Sometime I just kept them in a neat little pile for me to gaze at.
Today, fewer letters come, except for Christmas cards, which is like watching the kids of everyone I know grow up in time lapse photography. But I still like the mail. I even like the junk mail. I’m sort of fascinated by what comes to my door. And why. I have been getting Haddasah magazine for the past 6 months, despite the fact that I am not Jewish, do not go to a temple, and never ordered it (btw, I am half Jewish, half Italian/Catholic, but was not brought up practicing anything, but we’ll discuss this further in another post). Recently my husband began getting Wired, which is the last magazine in the world my husband would want, or be interested in. How did he get a subscription? We got Spin for a while, too. I flipped through it sometimes, wondering how in the hell this expensive magazine had my name on it. I even like catalogs (Yes, I am weird.) Some are so beautifully designed, I keep them in my office for reference. Some are ridiculous, and I marvel at the idea or product or presentation. A few are actually useful, offering odd stuff that I might never know existed, if the mail person didn’t bring it to my door.
Riley, my dog DOES NOT LIKE MAIL. He barks at the mail person in a viscious, “i will kill you,” way that is terrifying. (Riley is anything, but terrifying, but admittedly, his bark is that of a dog four times his size.) Here’s the odd part of this. We often have different mail people, and he hates all of them. This is something I just don’t understand. What is it that consistently gets him? Do they have a postal perfume that drives dogs wild? Even if we’re on a walk, he will spot a mail person and go crazy. That means, it’s not just a thing of someone walking up to our house, it’s something else. If anybody has any answers on this topic, fess up. I’m interested.
Anyway, I’m grateful for the mail. I worry about what will happen to the Postal Service in the future. I know they’re planning on ending Saturday delivery, which is kind of a major step. (I mean, there’s nothing like a Saturday night with the Garnet Hill Catalog). I am grateful for those men and women who get out there, like Santa with their sacks, and walk in rain, and snow and sleet, and crazy-kill-you heat, forced to meet up with mean old dogs (like Riley!) just to bring me my mail. Thanks you guys. Despite the fact that you also bring bills, and the depressing Sports Illustrated Bathing Suit Issue every February when I’m my pastiest winter white, I love what you do. Keep it coming Mr & Mrs. Postman.
gratitude-a-thon day 41: Pete is 80
I recently came back from Buffalo, NY, and I am still wondering why anybody would live there. Although every single person I met was exceptionally nice. AND I MEAN EXCEPTIONALLY NICE. It’s where my husband grew up, and where we went for his dad’s 80th birthday. His dad is having some major health stuff, fluid surrounding his brain, which makes him not remember things, and lose his balance. This was thought to have been Parkinson’s for several years, but was recently re-diagnosed as adult hydrocephalus. There are some things you can do to help this condition, but he’s not really in good enough health to do them. We’re probably dealing with a series of strokes here, too. Last week he found an infection in his leg, which put him into the hospital, and now into a rehab center, so last night’s party was there, in a special little room just for families to hang out. It’s a nice place, as far as those places go, and it doesn’t have that awful urine smell, which is what I most remember about where my poor Aunt Josie was.
Anyway, here’s the grateful part. The night we celebrated, I said something to Pete (my father-in-law) about being 80 and what a big birthday it is. And he said, something like, “Yeah, and I’m going to have a lot more birthdays.” And later in the night, he said something else, in a hearty voice, about living a long, long time. He said it with conviction and joy. He said it like a man on a mission. This guy clearly doesn’t want to give up. He wants to live. I admire that. I know that for a lot of people getting old brings with it too many super hard and pain-in-the-ass (back, leg, head, shoulders, knees and toes) challenges, to be excited about more living, but Pete has not only the will to live, but also the drive. What he doesn’t have is the health. And that’s a bit of a problem at this point. He may have to move into assisted living from the rehab center, and there’s the tricky and the icky. Pete will not want to leave his house, the house where his kids grew up, where the majority of his adult life was lived, where there are still so many reminders of his wife, the mom to his kids, who lived with him there, before she left him 20 years ago for her high school boyfriend while on a celebratory vacation to Hawaii in honor of their 35th wedding anniversary, and died from breast cancer a year and a half ago. (I told you this guy is a survivor.) He will not want to leave all the comfort and familiarity, (not to mention his baby grand), of this dwelling where he made a new life with an amazing new woman, who was sent by divine intervention after his wife left, and has been with him ever since, and who is as intelligent, beautiful, upbeat, and vivacious a person as you could ever find. And his kids don’t want him to leave either, and they don’t want to have to dismantle the house that represents their childhoods, and a time they can never get back again, but that this house reminds them existed. How come stuff has to happen like this? Couldn’t there be a better last chapter for all of us? REALLY, people, we need to work on the ending.
It’s all so complicated, like one of those stupid Rubik cubes–you turn it one way and it works, you turn it another and the whole thing falls apart. I understand this scenario my husband and his siblings and Pete’s partner are going through because I have already been on this shitty roller coaster ride. I have already had to walk this long and crumbling road, watching both of my parents get sick and die. And I have had to face losing the only house that I ever lived in growing up, and all its soothing contents. There was something so comforting about knowing that while I moved onto have my own life, that house remained untouched. And in my mind, some part of my younger self still lived there.
I find the whole situation so unspeakably sad and difficult, that even though I’ve never been close to my father-in-law, I abhor watching what’s happening to him. I want to make it better, be Cher and turn back the hands of time, invent some plan that could turn the whole thing around for everybody. But as for Pete. He wants to live. Perhaps it’s how you are, when you’re the son of a Holocaust survivor, or maybe it’s just his inherent nature. But this guy chooses life. And I think that given the circumstances, that’s just all kinds of beautiful.
gratitude-a-thon day 40: ann dowd and the oscars
Gosh, I love the Oscars. I love them just like I worked in an industry where I might actually be in contention for one. I love the pre-show red carpet, the actual red carpet, the fashion on that gosh darn carpet, and of course, the unpredictability/predictability of who will win and what they’ll say, or forget to say, or say in a some really dumb way that makes me always say, “I would have given a better speech than THAT.”
I did not see Les Miserable. Mostly because I hate musical movies (although I am fine with musical plays, go figure). I also despise Hugh Jackman for absolutely no reason. And while I hear that Anne Hathaway’s performance was stellar, I want to talk about another Ann who should have been in this category, but wasn’t.
Ann Dowd, is the sister of my close friend Deb. She has been a working actress for her whole adult life. She was pre-med at Holy Cross, but fortunately for us, she chose to be a pretend doctor, instead of a real one. (In fact, did you see Marley & Me? She was the warm and lovely veterinarian.) Anyway, Ann has been in all sorts of movies, tv shows, and plays. (I saw her in an Off-Broadway production of “Our Town,” in which she was amazing.) And she has won all sorts of awards. Last year she starred in a disturbing movie based on a true story, called “Compliance.” Her performance, as a fast food manager, convinced by a prank phone caller posing as a policeman, to interrogate a young employee accused of stealing, got Ann got big time Oscar buzz and major critical acclaim. But Magnolia pictures didn’t have the funds to do a big splashy PR campaign for her, so she did her own, with support of friends and family, putting together $13,000 of her own money to send members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences (the voters), the “Compliance” DVD. In the end, Ann didn’t get the nomination, EXCEPT IN MY BOOK. Because aside from being an extraordinary actress, she is an extraordinary person. She has three children, two of whom have special needs (and are exceptionally and awesomely special, I might add). One of those gorgeous kids is a foster child who Ann and her husband are adopting after a long relationship (with him and the courts). Ann is warm, and intelligent, and gorgeous and funny. She is generous and nurturing and genuinely one of the nicest people inhabiting our planet. So, really, I feel like the wrong Ann won. Because I count all that stuff, and I’m not saying Anne Hathaway isn’t a nice person, but I will go as far as to say she probably isn’t as nice as Ann Dowd. (BTW, Ann did win a National Board of Review Award and was nominated for an Independent Spirit Award, which she lost to Helen Hunt–nudity wins every time, as well as a Critics Choice Award.)
Anwyay, I didn’t love the show this year. I thought Seth had a couple of good moments that had me laughing out loud, but it was sort of an uneven show. I did find the cast of Les Mis singing really powerful (despite my disgust wtih movie musicals–I am being a bit Bipolar here, no?). And Jenifer Hudson and Adele were ABSOLUTELY OUT OF THIS WORLD AMAZING. And our hometown boy Ben winning Best Picture was really cool, shocking everyone (especially Spielberg). And for crying out loud, Jennifer Lawrence is adorable. And I just think Daniel Day-Lewis is the most lovely man that ever was (please don’t tell me anything different).
And as for fashion, I did like the wrong Anne. I wished her red carpet dress fit better in the boob area, but I loved the back and the necklace was just WOW. I also adored the dress she wore when she sang on stage. And why couldn’t Melissa McCarthy, who is so freaking funny, have a dress like Octavia Spencer. That’s how you dress a curvy girl. And my other two picks for “I wish I had that dress,” are Samantha Barks–simple and stunning, and Renee Zellweger, ohmygod. Of course, I wouldn’t mind having their bodies either.
And that’s it for the Oscar round-up. Thanks for watching. See you next year.
*the gratitude-a-thon 